


Murderous Gripe

by mitchpell



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Treated Seriously, Drinking, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitchpell/pseuds/mitchpell
Summary: Probably best described as canon divergent after season 4.  A drunken Spike laments to a disobliging bartender.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 1





	Murderous Gripe

**Author's Note:**

> This was all that was written of a Smallville/BtVS crossover that has officially been abandoned. That being said, I think it works pretty well as a stand alone.
> 
> Many thanks to [legendarytobes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendarytobes/pseuds/legendarytobes) for all the help and suggestions as my beta reader.

“I can vaguely recall being happy, once upon a very long long time ago, with my sweet beloved Drusilla,” Spike slurred from where he sat, practically laid out on the bar. “The two of us hunting and killing and maiming and shagging our way across the world. Leaving a spectacular trail of death, destruction, and chaos in our wake. Drinking all the warm, sweet, human blood we wanted, swimming in great red rivers of it. God, those were the days or nights if you want to get technical. A vamp couldn’t have wanted for much more. You know?” he asked, turning towards the man…or was it a vampire beside him. “This a demon bar?” he asked, while simultaneously shrugging his shoulders, “’s not like it matters.”

He knocked back another shot, slamming the empty glass upside down on the bar, shaking his head all the while. “And then we had to go to Sunnydale, to the Hellmouth! That, unbeknownst to me, was home to the slayer. Not that the slayer should have been a problem. Handled ‘em before, no problem. But this girl? No, she’s gotta have her little gang. Her Scooooobies, who were always showing up and mucking about, giving the slayer support. Something she wasn’t supposed to have. It wasn’t right, wasn’t how it was done. It was supposed to be me against her, not me against her and her little band of brats.

“So yeah, all right” he conceded without pause,” Sunnydale was a mistake. I admit it. Everybody makes a couple, ‘m no different. Well...all right, so I’ve made more than a couple, quite a few actually. But who’s counting. And ‘sides, this was the only one that meant anything on the grand scale, the one that took the cake. Or no wait…returning to Sunnyhell for the third…no fourth time had been the worst. Yeah, for the fourth time. When the soldier boys stuck this fucking chip in m’ head. God, I’m still paying for that one.”

Spike laughed, a mix of both hysteria and mania. “Should’ve seen it coming, I should’ve. Burned the shit up in that sub, but I should’ve known that wouldn’t stop ‘em. And it was typical bloody Yank style, stealing it off somebody else. Bloody Germans. Bloody geniuses they were, ‘cept for the part about trying to control monsters. You can’t control us. Bloody forces of darkness we are. Think a couple of tossers like you lot could take us? Please! I could take you all without so much as breaking a sweat. Not that I sweat mind you…”

“Hey!” the bartender interjected, somewhat sharply as he poured Spike another shot. “I think you’ve said enough for tonight. So why don’t you just sit there and drink your drinks, huh? Give the rest of us some peace.”

“’S a bar, mate,” Spike replied with an edge of annoyance at being interrupted. “’S where you’re supposed to drown your woes. Get a sympathetic ear, an all. So jus’ shut your bloody trap and fill the little glasses.”

“Look, pal, I don’t want any trouble,” the bartender insisted, “but if you keep running at the mouth, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“This guy giving you trouble, Dave?” called one of the guys over at the pool table.

“No, John, everything is fine,” Dave replied calmly, “our friend here was just leaving. Weren’t you, pal?”

“Noooo, no,” Spike replied, as if he were speaking to a two-year-old. “You were pouring the drinks, I was drowin’ my woes, and rest of you wankers were sodding the fuck off.”

The sound of John’s hand smacking the bar echoed through the room. But Spike didn’t flinch; he picked up his last shot and knocked it down as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Now look here, asshole,” John hissed in Spike’s ear. “You’ve got two choices. You can either get up and leave, or me and the boys here can throw you skinny ass out.”

Spike sighed as he turned over the shot glass and set it on the bar. “Pour me another there, mate,” he said to Dave, clearly ignoring John and the other men.

“Fucking son of a bitch,” John muttered, before reaching to grab a hold of Spike’s jacket collar, no doubt in an attempt to haul him out of the bar. But his hand never found purchase. Instead, John found himself on his knees, with a cold hand squeezing his throat, cutting off his air supply.

Spike looked down into terrified eyes, savoring the smell of fear and feel of the blood pulsing against his fingers as he tightened his grip on John’s throat. Then with a sadistic grin and a mere twist of his hand, he dropped John’s dead body to the floor. Smile still firmly in place, he looked up expectantly at the others, waiting for them to make the next move.

The attack didn’t come from them, as he’d expected; instead it came from behind, in the form of a beer bottle being broken over his head. Spike stumbled under the force of the blow but somehow managed to keep from falling off his bar stool, quite a feat if one considered just how drunk he was. Pisssed off, he spun around, only to have what remained of the bottle to be smashed into his face by the man who’d been sitting beside him.

Wiping blood from his cut cheek, Spike hauled off and punched the man in the stomach, sending him to his knees too. He then took the man’s head in his hands and snapped his neck. “God, I love that sound!” he exclaimed as he turned back to face the remaining three men and bartender who had backed away slightly, the rest of the crowd apparently having wisely decided to clear out of the place. “The sound of bones breaking beneath your fingers. Does a dead heart good, you know?” he said amiably as he slid off the stool and slowly started to approach them.

“Still, there’s just something…I don’t know…missing,” he continued, as he stepped over John’s body. “But what could it be? What could it be? Oh, yeah, argh!” Spike screamed, clutching his head as the chip fired, sending sparks of white-hot pain lacing through his skull. It wasn’t enough to drop him to the floor, but it was enough to give the others the upper hand.

They charged him, two of them tearing his hands away from his head and twisting his arms behind his back. They dragged him to the center of the room. But the chip kept firing, muffling the voices around him.

“Vampire, huh…kill you then…Mark…fuck are you doing…all the cops…fucking gun down…killed John…Jesus, you can’t…put you away…let him walk away…the cops…what you’re doing…the motherfucker’s brains out.”

Then it stopped. The chip stopped, and he was free again.

Spike tore an arm loose from one of the men holding him, and threw himself against the other captor, ripping into the man’s throat with his fangs, sucking down the hot, thick blood. The rush was short lived as a gun fired, sending lead tearing through his back and shoulder. He stumbled, releasing his third victim and letting the bloody fall to the ground.

Spike turned then, ever so slowly, raising golden demon eyes to meet the gunmen’s.

“Oh, Jesus,” Dave whispered from back behind the bar. “Oh sweet Jesus.”

Spike wasn’t playing anymore. He couldn’t risk the chip going off again, not now. So he made it quick, another easy snap of the neck for the other man who’d been holding him, and a pool cue through the chest of the one with the shotgun. That only left the bartender.

He sidled slowly up to the bar, grabbed the long forgotten bottle of whiskey and drained the rest of the bottle. “God, I’m going to miss this,” he lamented, wincing as the chip gave out a small shock. “Too bad, I couldn’t have taken my time. Enjoyed myself a little. But I don’t particularly like getting shot, takes all the fun out of everything.” He looked down at where Dave was cowering on the floor before hurtling the counter. Hauling the man to his feat, Spike grinned at him. “One more before the road, eh?” 

Then he tilted the man’s head to the side and sank his teeth in, drinking his fill.


End file.
